


something don't feel right

by ZoeBug



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (from Lonnie), Brother Feels, Brothers, Character Study, Gen, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lonnie Byers Being an Asshole, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Verbal Abuse, Will Byers Needs a Hug, Will Byers-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 23:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14862608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeBug/pseuds/ZoeBug
Summary: "It makes you wonder if this is just how sadness happens—that it is done quietly and alone and while pretending it doesn’t happen at all."A pre-canon snapshot of Will Byers' home life.





	something don't feel right

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually originally written to be part of a longer piece centered on Will and his POV and feelings throughout the events of the series. However, that has been sitting unfinished on my computer for a while so I figured I might as well publish this little piece of it.
> 
> Whether I do ever get around to finishing the full thing, I think this can be enjoyed as a stand alone little drabble. Lmk if you'd want a longer piece centered on Will in this style! Because ah, how I do love 2nd person.

Lonnie decides he should start taking you to baseball games. You still call him "Dad" then.

He cheers for teams you can’t really remember the names of afterwards, yells insults at the other team that make you feel like you are slowly shrinking. Your fingers itch for something to draw on.

When his team hits a home-run, he turns to you and punches you in the shoulder, laughing and whooping loudly, and you’re almost entirely sure he meant it to be something affectionate but your eyes water from the pain.

You turn your face into your shoulder and try to wipe it away because your father has told you lots of things about crying—that boys aren’t supposed to, that it’s weak, that it makes you a sissy.

He takes you to baseball games and you pretend to like them because your father says it’s normal for young boys to like sports. You pretend to like baseball and pretend to be a boy who doesn’t cry and pretend to do normal things because you want your father to love you.

You pretend a lot of things because of your father.

You pretend you don’t wake up to him slamming the door as he comes home in the early hours of the morning. You pretend his voice isn’t loud enough for you to hear it through the walls even with all the alcohol slurring his words. It occurs to you that you have probably heard more of your father’s voice through the thin walls of your house than you have face to face. He shouts at your mother, calling her a harpy and a nag and a whore and a bitch. You cry even though your father says it’s not something you’re supposed to do.

You hear your mother crying, too, in the quiet that follows, trying to muffle her sobs behind a hand or a pillow. She must be doing it because she doesn’t want you to know, you realize. But the walls are too thin for her brave attempt at sparing you to do you any good.

She pretends things because of your father too, you learn. She pretends she doesn’t deserve better. She pretends the life she has with him is worth being grateful for. She pretends her children do not hear her crying through the walls late at night.

It makes you wonder if this is just how sadness happens—that it is done quietly and alone and while pretending it doesn’t happen at all.

Your father never stops drinking or coming home late or shouting at your mother, but after a while he stops blaming her and starts blaming you and Jonathan.

You are seven years old the first time you hear your father call you a faggot.

After being woken by the sound of your name slurred loudly in the living room, you lie awake, listening. Your parents are arguing about something—how much money Lonnie spends on drinking, maybe. A solid guess; it comes up often enough. You lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling as you hear your father spit that maybe he wouldn’t drink so much if he “didn’t have a fucking faggot for a son.”

At seven, you don’t yet know what that means. He calls you lots of other things too, though, in conjunction with the word, and those are things that you _do_ understand—things that, at seven, you understand to mean you are a disappointment.

You decide to ask Jonathan, though. Just to be sure.

The Smiths are playing on his stereo when you knock on his door. He doesn’t turn it off when you come in, only turns it down enough to let the two of you talk. It really hits you then, as you’re making your way across Jonathan’s room to sit beside him on the bed where he’s patting the covers, just how much you love your brother.

When you ask him what the word means, Jonathan freezes for a moment. His face floods with anger and he demands to know who said that word around you.

When you tell him it was Lonnie, that he said _you_ were one, the anger seems to melt from Jonathan’s face—one of your crayons left beside the heating vent. He swallows and looks away. You watch his hands clench into fists and then uncurl.

He hugs you tight and you don’t exactly understand why.

Jonathan holds on to you tight, tells you that anyone would be lucky to have you for a son, tells you that your father is a bastard and a selfish drunk, tells you that Lonnie doesn't appreciate what an amazing kid you are.

You hug Jonathan back just as tightly, just as fiercely, but you say nothing in return. You don’t think Jonathan would like your reply so you don’t say it—don’t tell him that you can’t quite believe him but that you love him for saying so anyway. You just keep your mouth closed against the rough cotton of his t-shirt over the solid line of his shoulder.

You wonder how many times Jonathan has listened to your father call _him_ horrible things through the walls of his bedroom late at night. You wonder how many times Jonathan has lain awake and stared up at his dark ceiling and cried quietly and alone and pretended it didn’t happen at all.

You love Jonathan. And you love your mother. And you are tired of pretending that you are not sad. Of pretending not to know that _they_ are sad.

The thought comes to you, with the warm solidity of Jonathan’s arms squeezing you protectively to his chest, that if you all are sad anyway, you don’t understand why you should pretend you have to do it all alone.

**Author's Note:**

> [fanfic/podfic blog](http://zoe-bug.tumblr.com/) | [personal](http://xiexiecaptain.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/xiexiecaptain)


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